A Reason to Fight
by Lolcano
Summary: You know the level where you play as the Dawn Brigade and you attack the laguz as they cross the river during their retreat from Begnion? This is the level from Ranulf's perspective. Don't know why I wrote this, but whatever.
Ranulf hardly ever meant what he said, and so when, standing with Skrimir and watching the long, drawn-out retreat of the laguz alliance army, he commented, "Well, that went well," it was abundantly clear he did not mean it. The fact that the Gallian army, previously so successful, had been defeated and now in retreat was decidedly not "well".

"Well, that went well," drawled Ranulf as he stood with with Skrimir and watched the long, drawn-out retreat of the laguz alliance army. And yet it was abundantly clear he did not mean it. The fact that the Gallian army, previously so successful, had been defeated and was now in retreat was decidedly not "well".

Then why did he say it? Because with these insincere words he was communicating a host of another million meanings, whether intended or unintended. When he had said "Well, that went well," had meant to say, "Well we just got totally whooped," and even "This was a stupid idea in the first place, and now look what came of it." But at the same time it also expressed an optimistic hope for the future and a knowledge they had not yet been defeated. Just as much as they meant the above they also equally meant, "Yes, maybe that didn't go so well, but oh well, here we are and let's make the best of it," and "That didn't go well, but maybe from now on it will be better."

Because Ranulf was just that kind of guy. Optimistic.

"Hm," said Skrimir. Ever since he had been defeated by Zelgius his replies had become increasingly monosyllabic. Whether he understood Ranulf's meaning and was agreeing or disagreeing, nobody could tell, but what was obvious was that Skrimir definitely did not think things had gone well.

Well he wasn't wrong.

They watched the long columns of laguz marching steadfastly across the plains. They marched sharply and quickly, their steady, uniform footsteps thudding rhythmically against the ground. All were together in their long rectangular regiments, everything was neat and tidy. But the soldiers tails were drooping, and instead of the cheerful song and excitement which had thrummed through the men in the advance, there was a general disheartenment. They were retreating. They had been defeated. By _humans_ no less.

The ground beneath them was brown and lifeless now, its former green glory destroyed beneath the steady tromp of a thousand soldiers feet. Some of this had been farmland once. But war, that terrible beast which only destroys, had ripped away its fresh summer bounty. Because war could never be satisfied; it ate away all the crops, the fruits, the fields, and life itself. The few farms scattered across the plains had been ransacked; their inhabitants either fled or dead. And behind them, flickering flames marked where there had once been a village. The lands of Begnion, destroyed. And for what? These simple farmers, what had they done? But Ranulf had let the laguz go on with their looting, recognizing that it was necessary for morale, that it was an inevitable part of war. But why did innocent people have to be dragged into it? Like Ike and the Greil mercenaries. They didn't belong in this war. They didn't understand it, nor did they know its full causes. They simply listened to Ranulf and believed him, and came to help him.

Ah well, perhaps it was better for everyone that it was over now.

For a moment he allowed his eyes to rest on the flickering flames behind him, the ravaged fields and brown rolling hills and the death and destruction left in his wake.

But finally Ranulf turned away from this dreary scene, wiping his hands as if to rid himself of it all, and began to stride forward. What's done is done. Now they had to look to Gallia.

"We'll reach the river soon," he announced to Skrimir, "We should begin crossing by tonight."

"Hm," agreed the lion gloomily.

Ranulf looked at him for a moment, then shrugged and loped away. There were things to do. No matter what happened, there was a future ahead!

And as he walked, he swung his hands and whistled merrily.

xXxXxX

That night, as they crossed the river, a thick and heavy mist set in. It enveloped everything, a cool, white cloak that hid everything within its grasp. Ranulf strained his eyes and he could see the wispy, hovering shapes of bodies. They appeared like passing spirits, as if travelling through a mysterious other world. The water was glassy white, like ice and the soldiers seemed to glide over it, faint and indistinct. It was so strange, so unworldly, and it set his fur on edge. It seemed… wrong somehow. Something was wrong.

His eyes, so strong and powerful in all other circumstances were useless here, and so he focused on his other senses. He could hear the faint splashes and footsteps of the crossing Gallians, he could smell the very dampness in the air, and…something else? A very faint smell from the other side of the river? But the wind was blowing the wrong direction, and he could not tell.

"Do you smell that?" said another voice, eerily echoing his thoughts. It was Lyre, standing somewhere within the mist.

"I can't smell anything," he heard Kyza's deep voice coming from somewhere not far away, "What is it?"

As he drew neary Ranulf made out their wispy outlines. The two of them were supervising the river crossing on this side, as much as one could, in this fog.

"Hm, maybe it's just my imagination," said Lyre.

Ranulf was suddenly right next to them.

"Think hard," he said urgently, "What kind of smell?"

"Hello, Captain Ranulf!" said Lyre, "Um, well... Let's see. What is that smell? Oh, I know! It smells like one of those torches that the beorc use!"

Beorcs?

Before he even knew what he was doing Ranulf was moving. His fur was standing on edge, telling him to move. It was nothing, perhaps, but his instinct told him it wasn't, and Ranulf listened to his instinct.

He vaguely remembered saying something to Lyre and Kyza. Later he could not recall what it was he said. He was running towards the main force. Thy must nearly be across the river by now. Would he reach them in time? But it was too late. He heard the screams and clash of steel far before he arrived. And suddenly out of the fog materialized some terrible scene; of soldiers dying and battle raging and the icy water turning red. He looked down into the water and its scarlet currents now lapped at Ranulf's feet and dyed his pants red.

Beorc soldiers were ahead. Beorc soldiers, too close, too sudden and too unexpected. And how many? Who knew! They were unprepared! Unready! But still the laguz marched onwards, tumbling headlong into this unexpected foe without any time to transform. A body bobbed next to Ranulf in the water, his tail limp and cold, blood blossoming out of his body like a flower. This laguz had not been expecting the enemy; his limp unmoving face registered a terribly innocent shock. He had been killed when defenseless. And another body floated by, and another. How many had they lost in this first, unexpected ambush? But now word was trickling back of the attack, and yet they still marched forward, now prepared for battle, and violently renewed the assault on the misty foe, depending largely on their nose and ears.

They would die if they did not retreat! They were not ready, nobody was prepared, a river was no place for a battle. It was illogical to move forward, they should retreat and find a better spot.

"Fall back, fall back!" he cried to the advancing soldiers, but they ignored him.

"Lethe, you idiot, why don't you fall back?" he cried, seeing her unmoving form appear out of the mist. Lethe said nothing, grimly watching as the soldiers marched onwards, now transforming, and now flinging themselves on the enemies.

"The soldiers think that if we retreat any longer, we'd be throwing away our pride," Lethe reported finally, her lips pressed close together and her eyes staring out with determination.

And even as he protested against her, he somehow understood. Lethe sensed this, and replied patiently, "I know that retreat is the sane course of action, Ranulf. But if we run now, we'd lose the values we hold dearest in our hearts."

The values of the heart… He sighed. Gallians! What a bunch of stubborn fools. But he understood. Yes, the Gallians could not retreat. They had been defeated already, they needed a battle. They needed something to bring them together, to unite them in battle and victory, to find triumph in retreat and spur them onwards to the goal. _What a cold-hearted way to put it_ , he laughed to himself grimly. That wasn't what Lethe meant. But still...

The wafting scent of death and blood drifted up Ranulf's nose and he grimaced, but he knew now there could be no other way. Ah, Gallia, the land of fools. He should have remembered that.

"...Fine, Lethe," he said loudly over the noise of battle, not realizing he was shouting, "As long as it's your decision, not someone else's. I'll join the others in the back and watch over Skrimir. We're counting on you!"

He disappeared into the mist. Disappeared like the dead, but he wasn't dead, not yet.

The marching soldiers looked at him curiously as he hurried through the crowds. Why was he going the wrong way? they wondered. They still had no idea what awaited them and so Ranulf cired out as he passed, "The enemy is ahead!" and they grinned dangerously at him and kept marching. They did not retreat, as a sane person would do, but instead moved ahead quicker, as if eager for battle. What an insane culture he was part of, he lamented to himself. But he would not retreat either.

He reached Skrimir, who was in the back overseeing the transport of the baggage trains.

Somehow the man sensed that something was wrong and turned around even before Ranulf spoke to him. He looked up Ranulf's dripping wet figure with cursory concern.

"What is it?" he said brusquely. Ranulf stopped, panting slightly.

"An ambush!" he cried, "The enemy is in front of us!"

"But how…" began Skrimir, his eyes widening, then realized it didn't matter. He began to stride forward, not turning back or explaining what he was doing.

"Skrimir!" cried Ranulf, but the lion did not turn back. His back was broad and powerful, pushing through the others like they were but grass.

"If the enemy is in front of us, then we will tear through them," Skrimir said, not looking back, "It is as simple as that."

"What we really should do," said Ranulf, though he knew it was pointless, "Is retreat now, so we can save more lives," He caught up to Skrimir who still forged forward determinately.

"We are Gallians," said Skrimir, acknowledging Ranulf's present with a slight nod, "We are not afraid of death."

"Heh," said Ranulf, closing his eyes. He stood far behind Skrimir now, who was forging ahead, rallying the troops. Yes, they would die. Yes, this was illogical and a terrible place for a battle. But they were Gallians! And Gallians would fight. He smiled to himself.

He looked at Skrimir's strong young form, pushing forward in the crowd with no sign of fear in his eyes, emanating a calm and fearsome confidence that the others looked at admiringly, and Ranulf could not help but feel proud. Yes, Gallians were idiots. But they were brave idiots. And so with a shrug he tossed off the idea of retreat once and for all, and committed himself with cheerful optimism to the idea of the attack.

Skrimir was in the thick of the troops now. The Gallians surged around him, waiting to see what he would do, how he would act. Should they move forward? Surely they would not be forced to retreat?

Skrimir roared. With this roar, any hearts among the Gallians that were uncertain, any souls that were worried, suddenly grew strong.

"Men of Gallia! Too long have we run!" he cried, "But today we will fight!"

The crowds cheered and Ranulf cheered too. The troops began to surge and rush into the front. With a start, Ranulf realized that Skrimir intended to do the same. He hurried up to stop him, cursing himself for letting him get so far. He had been caught up in the heat of battle, caught up in the noble feelings of self-sacrifice and stoicism that the others embraced, and had not been thinking. He could not let Skrimir go up into battle.

"You have to stay here Skrimir," he said loudly, approaching the lion, and the Skrimir gnashed his teeth in annoyance.

"But why?' the warrior snapped impatiently. But he listened to Ranulf.

"We need you alive. Besides, you're the general. You have to organize things from back here."

"That's stupid."

Ranulf shrugged. It was all fine and well for _him_ to throw his life away on a suicide charge, but in case they did survive this mess they would need Skrimir alive. He was the heir to the throne. There was politics involved here. Ranulf hurriedly found some strong looking soldiers and ordered them to look after the general, then hurried away. Hopefully Skrimir would listen to reason, but there was nothing else Ranulf could do.

He went to check on the battle.

On the left flank he could hear the thud of ballistae. It was a bad sign. But there was surprisingly little of it. The enemy seemed ill prepared to be fighting laguz, even if they had cleverly ambushed them upwind. He splashed through the water toward the left and there already some of the enemy soldiers had already advanced frighteningly far into the stream. Ranulf picked out their hazy shapes and breathed in deeply, blue light surrounding him and he transformed. On four legs the water was higher now, and he didn't like the wet, soaking feeling that drenched his belly. _This is really a very inconvenient place for a battle_! he lamented, but there was no changing things now. He sniffed the air, smelling the steely tang of Beorc and moved forward. His muscles clenched and he leaped into the air, and his body thudded into that of a soldier. The beorc reeled and clutched at his sword but Ranulf was at his throat, ripping away the flesh. Another soldier watched horrified, staring at terror at this beast defiling his friend. His voice cracked as he screamed and charged at Ranulf, but the blue cat lightly leaped away from his blows, spinning around him and raking his vulnerable back with sharp claws. The human's body fell heavily into the water with a splash. Ranulf hurried forward, killing whatever enemy soldiers (who where they? From what country? He couldn't tell) that he could see. It was a bad sign they had advanced so far, but it was mostly just small groups of them, separated through the fog and quickly torn down by the tigers and cats. Everything seemed in disarray. The boom of ballistae was still coming from the left and Ranulf hurried there. Their advancing line was broken here; that's how so many soldiers had penetrated it. Cats stumbled about as if drunken, some could continue no farther and transformed, others pressed forward. Then came hissing whistle of arrows and rocks and the sky rained down that hail of death. Everyone reeled, their line was broken, the water churned and it was chaos.

"Where is the commander!?" said Ranulf, not in Tellius language but the growling, physical language that is understood among the laguz.

"He's dead!" someone answered.

Without a superior officer they naturally looked up to Ranulf, waiting for orders or instructions.

"We need to take out the ballistae…" he said, looking in the direction that the arrows appeared to be coming from. They could see nothing in the mist. But from the noise it seemed that there were only two of them, and if taken it would be good for them. Quickly Ranulf prepared a scouting party, soldiers torn away from the pack partly by luck, partly by how healthy they looked, and together they quickly the ascended the slope up the river. Here the river bank turned into a rocky cliff, too high to climb. Ranulf growled angrily, realizing they would have to go around now, and that they were vulnerable here at its rocky bottom. Just then Ranulf sensed, rather than heard, the strange sound of a rock flying through the air. He looked up, but it was too late. And then he felt, rather than heard, that enormous thud of something massive hitting the ground, his own body flying through the air, something hard driving into his flesh and he was lying in the water. His head was underneath the surface and he couldn't breath what was happening, what was going on? Somebody dragged him out, some big grey tiger. The tiger, communicating with a shake of his head and a questioning growl, whether Ranulf was alright. Ranulf breathed in, shaking the water from his fur, and stepped forward tentively. His leg was bleeding slightly, and he limped a little. But he was fine. He jerked his head to the right, and that meant they would continue onwards. Their small group skirted around, avoiding the shifting shapes of enemy soldiers, killing those they could not avoid, and slowly and stealthily creeping up the river bank. Following the sounds of the ballistae, they reached the small, lightly fortified embankment, and silently pounced on its inhabitants, who were not looking in their directions. The archers screamed, feeling the sharp claws ripped into their flesh, completely surprised at the attack, and that same surprise was immortalized forever on their suddenly lifeless face. Ranulf and his small party quickly tore apart the machines, feeling that it was taken far too easily, didn't the enemy understand the importance of ballistae against laguz? Why were there no fire mages? Who was this enemy? Well there was no time to think. There were more enemy soldiers advancing now, drawn by the commotion, swords flashing and they would have to abandon the position they had just taken. At least the ballistae had been destroyed. Ripping away at the humans who dared to get too close, they hurried away from there. Even if this enemy weren't prepared to fight laguz, but they were well prepared to fight. Blood dripped down Ranulf's side.

Back in the river Ranulf gave some hurried orders to some cat that had been especially brave during their assault, promoting him to commander and telling him to keep advancing and see if he could take the river bank. Then he hurried off, still limping slightly, to the center where Skrimir was.

Luckily Skrimir seemed to have listened to him. He had remained in the back. But he had little other choice now, for adjutants and advisers and soldiers pummeled him on all sides, asking for orders, for his commands, telling him the latest news and asking how best to proceed.

"They're trying to outflank us on the right," said one soldier, "But the water's too deep."

And Skrimir nodded and snapped out some commands. Ranulf limped up and gave his report too.

"We took the ballistae on the left," he announced, "But they've got more soldiers there now and are advancing," and Skrimir nodded.

"How long do you think we can hold out?" Ranulf asked, and Skrimir narrowed his eyes.

"Until we die," he growled.

"Well, hopefully a little longer than that," said Ranulf with smile, and loped away, surveying the battle. Most of their troops were concentrated in the center, but they appeared to be having no success in breaking through. He saw Lethe directing the troops from the middle; she didn't appear to need his help. He moved to the right. Here arrows were whizzing by; one struck him on the front leg, but he barely felt it. His legs were pumping, everything was burning inside of him, he was hot and boiling but icy cool and calm. The soldiers were surging about every which way, without much order. Kyza appeared in front of him, transforming into human form.

"The water's too deep here." He reported, "We can't get across. We can do nothing but wait as their arrows come at us."

"You'll have to move back."

"They won't leave." (by _they_ he meant the Gallian soldiers, who stared across the deep waters with frustration at their unattainable foe)

"What will you do then?"

Kyza shrugged wearily and transformed back to cat form. Some of the laguz had begun to swim across, only to be cut down by javelins or arrows.

 _Stupid!_ Ranulf thought with admiration, _such brave fools!_ He started heading back to the center, perhaps to report back to Skrimir. But as he passed the river he suddenly found himself at the front line. The front line? Here? He was too far back. But yes, here the water was shallower and there were small islands of land, and the humans had advanced farther than elsewhere. The laguz pressed against them but kept on being driven back, back, until now the humans were far beyond the laguz lines. Their advance had been halted for now, because by some curious incident of nature the crossable land had suddenly became narrow, and was blocked on either side by trees and abruptly deep water. The only way across was a narrow strip, and it was being stoutly defended by the remaining laguz. But there were few; and those that remained were weak and lacerated with blood, and stumbled about weakly. They looked at about the point they would transform, and to transform was to die.

"Someone get a reserve here!" shouted Ranulf, and a lithe little orange cat seemed to hear him and rushed off to get reinforcements. He pushed his way to the front, replacing a laguz who had just fallen from exhaustion, and leaped at the humans throats. His claws scratched the air, scratched human flesh, dug deeply into the ground, into skin, armour, everything. His body leaped, it dodged, it flew, it ducked and parried and everything merged together into one misty white blur. Soldiers materialized out of the mist like ghosts then were cut down, becoming real ghosts, perhaps, and from their places rose new ones. Again and again they fell then rose again from the mist, exactly the same. Over and over, and Ranulf tore them down. His breathing grew ragged. How long had he been here? He couldn't tell. A javelin thrust through the air and he moved his body out of the way barely in time. Then he felt something heavy thud against his head and for a moment he could see nothing but faint flashes against darkness. He blinked and there was blood running down his face, but still he kept on fighting, not letting the humans pass. But the blood wouldn't stop. It was getting a little annoying. It ran down his face, dripping into his eyes so that he couldn't see. He felt oddly dizzy. Where was he? Who was he fighting? But it didn't matter; he just had to fight. His head ached. He still had that slight limp from before. He realized that there was an arrow in his leg. A body fell on top of him and his leg was caught beneath the heavy armour. He lay on the ground, soaking wet. Ah, he was so tired… He should sleep…

He remembered where he was. He had to fight. He struggled to get up. He threw himself at a soldier. The human tumbled backwards, frantically waving his sword at Ranulf's body. Ranulf felt the cold steel tear into his flesh. Blue fur floated through the air. _Is it mine?_ He though absently. For a moment he could only watch those tiny threads of hair floating through the air as delicately as feathers. _Aaah…_

Everything was falling, everything was fading in and out of the mist, everything was far away and near. _We must not let the humans in…_ he thought, struggling to get up. He fell down, feeling the weakness cover his entire body and slowly blue light engulfed him and he was in human form again. So weak…

Where was he again? The Ribahn River. Where was the water? Yes, there was a small island here, the humans were trying to get past him, but he wouldn't let them, no, he couldn't let the humans pass. But there they were. They were advancing. He pushed up with his arms, struggling to get up. Awkwardly he managed to stand on two legs, swaying slightly. He was untransformed. He squinted. Yes, there was a human, it was an enemy.

"Grraa!" he cried hoarsely, the sound ripping itself from his throat as he charged. His legs stumbled and everything felt awkward. This form was too weak, it would not do anything but he had to fight. He aimed a useless kick at the enemy, it bounced off and the man moved forward, axe in hand, ready to hack away his limbs and life. But then suddenly that self-same man was falling, with an arrow in his chest but Ranulf did not see the arrow and could only wonder why this man, previously so enegertic, was now dead.

"Ranulf!" came a voice, and it sounded strangely familiar. There was another human shape emerging from the mist. _A human, the enemy…_. Something inside of him said, and he wearily obeyed this voice and stumbled up to this enemy, kicking weakly.

"Woah, Ranulf, relax, it's me," said the human, and Ranulf realized that he knew this hum…this beorc. Blue hair, red cape… Yes, it was Ike. A friend…

"Ike?" he said, "But why…Oh, it doesn't matter."

Ike watched him bemusedly. Ranulf looked awful. "We'll take it from here. You should probably get back. You laguz are less than useless when you're not transformed."

"I'll be fine in a minute," said Ranulf absently, looking about him in amazement. The entire Greil Mercaneries had arrived.

"You know you have an arrow in your leg?"

"Yeah," shrugged Ranulf, smiling weakly, "I've had worse."

Ike couldn't help but laugh.

"You're crazy, you know? Now get out of here, we'll handle this."

But Ranulf stayed for a few minutes, recovering his strength which, with typical laguz fortitude, was coming back in leaps and bounds. He looked at the Greil mercenaries for a moment, wishing he could help. But he was still too weak to transform, and there was no use holding them back. He looked around at how the battle was going. Even now the laguz alliance was surging forward, never giving up, not giving quarter, but still the enemy would not budge and chopped them down repeatedly. _Who is this enemy?_ he wondered again. _Why are they attacking us?_

He found Lethe. She was searching for an opening. He appeared next to her. Then there was something going on in the enemies line. Someone from the enemy was advancing and at her command the enemies laid down their weapon. Their commander? Her white hair glowed in the mist, whoever it was, and they realized she wished to negotiate. Ranulf and Lethe moved forward. Near the front of the enemy lines Ranulf could make out a dark black shape. That armour… His heart leaped with recognition. Daein! Daein was attacking them!

"I've seen that black armor before…" he said quietly, half to himself, "You're with the Daein army! Why is Daein attacking us?!"

The woman seemed anxious, and looked at them with her luminous yellow eyes.

"Are you the general of this army?" she asked, her voice light and feminine. She seemed more of a little girl than a soldier, "I am Micaiah, a general of the Daein Royal Army."

So it _was_ Daein. They talked some more. Micaiah wanted a cease-fire, and somehow it was agreed that they would stop fighting, at least for a little while. And so the soldiers, who had only moments ago been killing and fighting each other, abruptly stopped killing and fighting this people with whom they had no personal quarrels, and returned to their respective sides. And these same soldiers who now ignored each other and no longer wished to kill each other, but instead wished only for their own lives, would soon once again be taking up their weapons, fighting and killing each other.

But that would all come later. For now, they would live.

* * *

 **This is a fic I actually wrote a looooong time ago, but I never posted. I've been playing Fire Emblem Fates recently, so I've been in a kind of Fire Emblemy mood. Radiant Dawn was the first Fire Emblem game I played, so it has a very special place in my heart. It kind of ruined all the other Fire Emblem games for me, because now when I'm playing fates I can't help but think the whole time, "This is great and all, but Path of Radiance and Radiant Dawn was better." I just love the storyline in those two games, and** **I started actually A LOT of fire emblem fics based on that that I never finished. I had a great one with Meg and Zihark planned, and one about Gallian internal politics, but at this point I don't think I'll ever finish them haha. This fic actually was going to be part of a longer series about Ranulf and Ike's friendship, but again, probably not going to happen. It works well enough as a standalone fic though so I thought I'd post it.**


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